Lydia turned away, aroused in a way that only added to her mortification. “No, I think not.”
She kept her back turned and listened to him splashing about. Even that was enough to give her plenty of fantasies, however. She busied herself, or at least tried to, by focusing on what she would wear. Without a lady’s maid to assist her, it was rather difficult to decide. Perhaps she could have one of the maids who worked at the inn to assist her. She would need some help, at any rate, especially with her hair.
She heard the water splash again as Brodie exited the bathtub, but she didn’t dare risk turning around. “Better ring for a maid,” he advised. “And have my valet come and attend me as soon as you are dressed.”
Lydia shuffled over to the cord with her back to Brodie at all times and pulled it. A nice young woman answered the call. It was the girl who’d brought them breakfast.
“Yes, miss?”
“Would you mind helping me dress?” she asked, thinking quickly. “My maid has been delayed on another coach.”
“Of course.” The girl came into the room but froze.
Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Lydia turned and saw Brodie seated in the chair wearing only his dressing gown. His dark hair was wet and curling at the ends, which only made Lydia’s heart race.
“Please, don’t mind him,” she told the girl. “He’s only my”
“Husband,” Brodie replied. “Forgive us if we are enjoying our honeymoon a bit too much.”
Lydia couldn’t believe him. Why had he said they were married? Did he actually care about her reputation, despite all his statements to the contrary?
“Oh, never, sir. You make a lovely couple. I’m sure your children will be beautiful,” the girl said, her cheeks a dark red as she assisted Lydia into a bright bishop’s-blue day gown. The hem of the skirt and her bodice had been embroidered with red swallows. It was not a fancy gown, but it made her hair and skin shine more. After she took a moment to style Lydia’s hair, the maid quickly curtsied and left.
“Why did you do it?” Lydia demanded as she whirled to face Brodie.
“Do what?”
“Call yourself my husband?”
Brodie sauntered up to her, placing his palms on her shoulders and peering down at her. “I suppose that’s a fair question.” He tilted his head to one side. “Maybe I don’t wish for the innkeeper to think you are a lightskirt and toss us both out. It is better to appear as though all is proper between us, you ken.”
Lydia couldn’t deny his words had a ring of truth to them.
“Well . . . That does make sense,” she agreed.
“And ’tis easy enough to say we are married when we aren’t,” he added with a wink. “Now, you do look bonnie, lass. Will you run and fetch Alan for me?”
“But”
“Go on, he’s only three doors down to the left. I would go, but I think I might cause a scandal.” He waved at his obvious state of dishabille.
“I thought you said you had no modesty to worry about.”
“I don’t. I’m only concerned about yours.”
Lydia smiled. “Very well.” She left the room and walked down the hall. She froze at the sounds of a man grunting and a woman gasping coming from a few doors down. As soon as it registered what must be going on inside, she blushed. It was the middle of the morning. She’d always thought such things were to be done only at night under darkness and with the protection of bedclothes. At least, that’s what she’d been told by Cornelia when she’d gone out for her first season. She could still hear the woman’s lecture now.
“You must never be alone with a man, even one who seems kind. You must never go walking with a man . . . riding with a man . . .”
Essentially, Cornelia’s advice was to do nothing with a man until she was married. And after she was married: “Never lie with a man without your nightdress on, or let him take you to bed before nightfall. And you must never let him see you bare-skinned.”
The list had been almost endless. Portia had tittered at all this, but Lydia had wanted to believe her aunt. She was starting to wonder if Aunt Cornelia might know far less about men—and even women—than she claimed she did. Lydia reached the door Brodie had indicated and knocked.
Alan, Brodie’s valet, answered the door. The young man looked startled as he realized who had disturbed him and Rafe’s valet in the midst of polishing boots for their masters.
“Good morning, Alan. Mr. Kincade has need of you, when you have a moment.”
Alan nodded. “Of course, miss. Thank you.” He closed the door behind him and headed for his master’s room. Lydia lingered outside the door to give Brodie the privacy he had denied her. The energetic sounds from the other room had stopped, and Lydia wondered what was going on now. The door suddenly opened, and she leapt back. The young maid who had helped her dress that morning exited the room, fixing her hair and skirts.
“Oh, pardon me, miss.” She blushed as Lydia stared at her. The girl muttered something about tea before she rushed away, leaving the door wide open. Rafe Lennox lounged in a chair by a small table in the middle of the room, grinning at Lydia.
“Morning, kitten. Did the mean old Scot toss you out?” He rose from the chair and waved for her to come inside.
“I don’t think I should,” Lydia said. If he had just made love to that maid, he might want another to take her place, and she certainly did not want that.
“I won’t bite, kitten. I’ve had enough pleasure for a few hours. I promise on what little honor I have left that I won’t touch you.”
Lydia was still hesitant when she entered the room, so she left the door open.
“By all means, leave yourself an escape route. I will not stop you. Besides, Brodie seems quite possessive of you. We’ve shared women before, but he won’t share you.”
Lydia wasn’t sure what shocked her more, his mention of sharing women or hearing that Brodie would refuse to do so with her.
“He won’t even let me ride in the coach that often, and certainly not alone with you. You honestly think I want to stay on horseback for hours at a time or ride on that bloody top seat with the servants? Christ.” He grinned. “And then I miss all the fun of him raging at you when he won’t see the truth sitting in front of his face.”
Lydia’s heart sped up as she wondered what he was talking about. “What truth?”
“Who you are, of course. You see, I was not nearly so foxed as he was the night of the ball. I remember the little chit who introduced herself, and it certainly wasn’t you. You are not Portia Hunt, but Lydia—friend to my sister, Joanna.” He was chuckling now. “Kincade kidnapped the wrong sister. How bloody marvelous.”
11
Brodie paused with his hand inches from Rafe’s door. He heard voices inside. Moments ago, he’d finished dressing and had gone looking for his wayward abductee, but having seen his friend’s door ajar, he’d wanted to see what the man was doing. Then he recognized Lydia’s voice inside. For a moment he was stirred to panic and even rage. Was his friend trying to seduce Lydia? Or was Lydia in fact the seducer? Either scenario seemed possible.